


Dinner For Two

by Anonymous



Category: Agents of Cracked
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 17:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They end up on the roof of the Chief's house.





	Dinner For Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentia/gifts).



> Directly follows the dinner party episode.

They end up on the roof of the Chief's house, which isn't exactly surreal in itself except that Dan was _fairly_ sure he'd followed Michael back into the kitchen, past the pantry, and then down into the basement; and also because he was still reeling from the fact that the Chief actually owned, you know, property—

"Well, _obviously_ , Dan. Where did you think he lived, a wigwam?"

"I just sort of assumed he lived in his office? Or in some—alternate dimension where plutonium is a, a food group." Dan gestures at the literal white picket fence below them. "Not somewhere so, you know, _normal_. Like normal people. Like... _people_."

Michael has apparently discovered he's still wearing an apron, and starts trying to take it off. "People, shmeeple," he says. "The Chief isn't people, Dan. I heard when he got his appendix taken out, it bit the doctor in the—"

" _Stop_ talking," says Dan, horrified. "Just—stop." 

There's silence for the next minute or so, during which Dan finishes the cucumber slices on his plate and starts in on the cherry tomatoes, which are perfectly ripe and wonderfully sweet. This isn't the worst turn of events, he admits—there's even a nice breeze going—and considering the luck he's had since arriving on the West Coast, he'd classify this assignment as Actually Pretty Good. It definitely beats out dealing with Broked.com, that's for sure.

A few minutes later, when Michael still hasn't managed to find his way out of the apron yet, Dan says, "Do you need some help with that?"

"No, Dan," says Michael, a little muffled. "I don't need any help taking my clothes off." 

"That is true," Dan says, taking a spoonful of couscous. "Just let me know, okay, buddy?" 

Eventually Michael gets himself untangled and settles in beside Dan, bumping him with an elbow. "I told you I could do it on my own."

"Good job, Michael," says Dan, handing over the other plate. "Here, come on. Eat up."

Instead of digging in, Michael brings the plate up to his face and peers closely at it. "Is this _sand?_ Dan, why would you try to make me eat sand?"

Dan sighs. "It's _couscous_ , Michael, not sand, and today I watched you eat a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter," he says, feeling his face wrinkle in disgust. "Which is, in case you couldn't figure out from the name of the product, _not_ actually butter, and also _incredibly_ disgusting. Even a tub of real butter is probably better for you than that."

"So you're going to buy some for me?" says Michael. "Why, thank you, Dan." 

"I'm not—" Dan sighs again. "Okay, why not. I will buy you _real_ butter, Michael, so you can eat it with your hands and make a mess all over my desk, my laptop, and my car. Oh, and also my entire life." 

Michael either misses the sarcasm or chooses to completely ignore it. "It's a deal," he says, grinning. "In return I'll eat your ancient tribal East Coast cuckoos, but only because it's you. And there'd better not be any clockwork in mine—you know I'm allergic."

"For the last time, Michael, it's couscous, and I know for a fact they have this in California. Why? Because I literally just made some in the Chief's kitchen, in his house, located in Los Angeles, California, nowhere near the East Coast."

"It is if you turn the world upside-down."

"No," says Dan. "North is north, south is south, that's the way a map works—"

Michael waves a dismissive hand. "Don't try to trick me, Dan," he says. "One of my majors was qualitative geology—I know way more about this stuff than you. And besides, I was talking about the world, not a map."

Dan feels his eyebrows drawing together. "There's just," he says, "a lot of stuff in that sentence I don't really want to think about right now. Or ever. Look—just shut up and eat, okay, Michael?" 

Michael takes a careful, experimental bite, and Dan can't help staring at him, trying to read his expression. It's not like Michael's any judge of fine cuisine—margarine isn't even the worst thing Dan's caught him eating—but Dan worked _hard_ on this dinner, damn it, and someone had better appreciate his effort, even if it's just Michael.

"Hm," Michael finally says, chewing. "It's more crunchy than I thought it would be. More hairy, too."

"Michael, what are you—" Dan looks over at his plate. "Michael, those are _ants_. And they're alive."

"Oh," says Michael, through a mouthful of bugs. "That's why."

Dan starts trying, futilely, to brush the ants off of Michael's face, hands, and miscellaneous body parts he doesn't want to think about right now or, really, ever. "That's because they're _live ant_ —Michael, stop _eating_ them, Jesus."

"My mouf is getting kind of tingly," says Michael. "Like pop rocks. Or when I drink from the women's bathwoom."

"Oh my _god_ ," Dan says, and in a last-ditch effort to save him manages to send the whole thing flying off the roof, utensils and all. There's a shattering noise and muffled yelling from below, but Dan's just so relieved Michael's all right to care about anything else. "Michael, let me see your hands."

"Aww," whines Michael, once Dan's declared him _ant-free, probably, I'm not checking down there even if I was getting paid enough for it._ "Now what am I supposed to eat?"

Dan pushes his half-full plate in Michael's direction. "I had a lot while I was cooking," he says. "Go ahead." 

"Thank you, Dan," says Michael, beaming like Dan's just given him the perfect present, or proposed to him, or agreed to let him set Stuart's desk on fire, instead of just handing over the other half of his dinner, and Dan feels his cheeks stinging for some weird reason. 

(Ant venom, probably.)

When Michael finishes the couscous he leans back onto the roof, looking up at the night sky; after a moment of deliberation Dan follows suit. The roof isn't necessarily soft, but it's comfortable enough and not so angled Dan would end up slipping off and plummeting to the ground like the time he'd helped Mandy clear out her non-figurative storm drains. 

(She hadn't even picked up when he'd called her from the hospital, which was a pretty rude way to treat a boyfriend. Even Michael had come to visit him; he'd been trying to get to the pet store and made a wrong turn, but Dan figures it still counts.)

The sky isn't as clear as Dan's used to at home, but there are still little clusters of stars visible here and there through the clouds and smog—Dan can make out Orion and half of the Big Dipper. "The stars are nice," he says, "aren't they?"

"Totally romantic," Michael says, and immediately begins taking off his pants.

"Michael, what are you—Michael, stop, you can't just take off your pants in public like this."

"Why not?" Michael looks like he genuinely doesn't understand, as is typically the case with him. "It's my evening routine, Dan. After work means no-pants time, and now that we've finished all the food, it means it's after work."

"Because there are laws against that, Michael, and I for one, am not going to go back in there and explain to the Sarge why I need half a million in bail after what was supposed to be a simple dinner party."

"You'll be the one making the money back, though," says Michael, sounding almost gleeful at the prospect. "If you know what I mean."

Dan winces. "Yeah, that's not happening."

"Come _on_ , Dan, quit being the Fun Police for once and lighten up, will you?"

Dan isn't good at saying no to Michael, mostly because there's never actually been any real point to saying it. Then again, who is it actually hurting if Michael takes his pants off on the roof of the Chief's house? It's not like there are any kids wandering around this time of night pointing binoculars at other people's roofs, and Michael's looking at him with such an earnest expression he can't even bring himself to refuse.

"Okay, fine," says Dan. "But _only_ the pants. Everything else stays on."

"Already off," Michael says triumphantly.

Dan groans. "I don't know why I checked to verify that. And where did you even _get_ those?"

"Your pig-lady friend stole mine that one time, so I went through the lost-and-found bin," explains Michael. "You'd be surprised how many pairs of panties are in there. I even took home some extra—you know, for personal use—"

"Ew, okay," says Dan. "I don't need to know about that." 

"And they're cute, too," Michael says, pointing out the pattern. "They don't make boxers with tiny pink unicorns on them." He wriggles a little closer to Dan, top of his head just brushing Dan's shoulder. "Thank you for letting me take my pants off, Dan." 

"You're welcome, Michael." 

"You can take yours off too if you want, you know." 

Dan laughs, a little helplessly. "That's okay." 

"You know, Dan, I'm having a really good time," says Michael. "Almost as good as my last birthday party."

"The fire department showed up to your last birthday party," Dan says. "And you just sneezed out, like, thirty ants." 

"Still." Michael wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "I got to eat a chupacabra—"

"Couscous, Michael."

"—and I'm up on the roof with my best friend, no pants, and a promise of real butter. Of _course_ I'm having a good time."

"I'm your best friend?" It's not like Michael hasn't called him that before, but he's also been doing so since Dan first got to L.A. and frankly, he isn't quite convinced Michael actually understands what the term means. For all he knows, it might just be his way of saying "someone I haven't yet driven to grisly suicide (though not for lack of trying)."

"Well, yeah," says Michael. "You make me happy, Dan. Even when you're being all—" Michael makes an exaggeratedly stern face, and Dan's reminded of the bear Ritalin incident. " _With great penis comes great responsibility._ You know?"

"Wrong accent," says Dan. "That's Voltaire, not Gandalf, and that's obviously not what the quote said."

"See what I mean? Fun Police," says Michael. "But despite your constant efforts to suck all the joy out of my life, you're still my number-one friend."

Dan has to hide his smile behind his hand. "Thank you, Michael." 

"Okay, maybe second-best after Crazy Raul, wait—third-best, I forgot about Star Wars."

"That's a movie, not a person."

"I'm going to tell him you said that," says Michael. Dan laughs again, despite himself, and Michael turns his face in Dan's direction, open and smiling. "I hope you're having a good time, too, Dan."

Dan can't help smiling back, an odd feeling in his stomach that might be, but hopefully isn't, ants. "Yeah, Michael, I am," he says. "I am, for some reason I cannot possibly explain, having a good time."

"I'm glad, Dan," says Michael, and even when he scoots over and lays his head on Dan's chest, hair tickling his neck and smelling faintly of margarine, the statement still holds true.


End file.
